What's Given Freely Can't Be Stolen
by lovemeartless
Summary: France & England in a bar, pretending to get drunk. America arrives, not pleased. (EnglandxFrance/FrUK)(some one-sided AmericaxEngland/USUK)(Warnings: Plotless, not USUK/UKUS-friendly. Complete warnings inside.)


**Note:** This is more of a statement fanfiction than anything; basically my story-fied reaction to the "rapist France" "hero America"-themed stories I read a long-loooooong time ago. **  
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 **Warnings:** Plot What Plot, Mild Murika Bashing, But Really More of Murika's Scary Fans Bashing, Not USUK/UKUS-Friendly, Canons and Headcanons, Unbeta'd

 **Disclaimer:** Please take time to read the lengthy standard disclaimer on my profile page. It's for all my Hetalia stories, so once you've read it you'll never have to read again. Huzzah!

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Story#07: **  
"What's Given Freely Can't Be Stolen"**

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England wasn't that drunk yet; he could still feel the awkward air between them.

That night the pub was filled with an assortment of customers raring for the usual end-of-the-week cap off. The customary live band with their catchy beats floated nicely in the background amidst the occassional melodious tinkle of scotch glass ice cubes sliding down one another.

Overall, the pleasing sights and sounds from all directions were welcome distractions to their usual day-to-day grind… But _there was also France._ And to England, there was no greater, more unwelcome distraction that so effectively distracted him without his permission.

That said unwelcome distraction was twiddling wisps of the "distracted" English Nation's unruly blond hair between elegant fingers whilst laughing softly at his subdued reactions. Given this, for some bizarre unknown reason, England felt no compulsion whatsoever to do anything about it.

"I wondzer if I will ever be able to live out my dream of conquering you..." France slurred woefully; the pads of his fingers lightly grazing flushed cheeks. "…Of owning every part of you—arrantly."

England had to consciously remind himself that France was, like him, already halfway drunk, which meant: he was either being an ass – or being _completely honest_.

France set down his glass and rested his head on the bar table, peering up at his companion's face.

"Kiss me." It wasn't a command, it sounded like a playful invitation. " _Angleterre,_ kiss me, _s'il vous plait_?"

England felt irked; but he also felt tempted to obey. France looked absolutely, exceptionally beautiful like that: eyes a deeper shade beneath the dim lights; wavy locks spread around him like a silken halo…

Before the English Nation knew what was happening, he found himself complying with the request. He felt France's smile before he pulled away from the Frenchman's cheek. But he hadn't gotten far when he felt a hand on his nape which guided him back, only this time, it was to waiting lips.

England started a bit as he was kissed. He didn't have to respond for the action to work its usual magic on him exceptionally well—he was beginning to achieve what he had come to that place for: which was to forget everything else.

Gasps and giggles from a group of passing girls broke the spell. England pulled away abruptly.

"I-I need to use the loo."

"Do you need my help?" France whispered.

"Help with what?"

"With whatever urgent business you need to do in there."

"Why would—" England took notice of his neighbouring Nation's eyes flitting downward for a split-second before those flawless French lips formed a suggestive smirk.

 **-x-**

France kept his eyes on his neighbouring Nation's wobbly form until he disappeared down the narrow passageway leading to the restrooms. Sighing, he rubbed the spot on his head where England had clocked him, convinced that sarcasm and self-deprecation were the only kind of humour the Englishman could appreciate.

No sooner had he averted his gaze from where England was, did France feel himself being pulled out of his bar stool by the scruff of his shirt and held up full height.

He blinked at his handler, mildly surprised.

"Oh, itiss just you. Whatz do you want?"

The American Nation being pissed was not a common occurrence. However, when around his French rival, the chances of that were greatly increased. Whatever his reasons for the foul mood though, France didn't have a clue. It could be a hundred things, really.

"This why you helped me get away from him?" America began, his nostrils flaring up a bit. "So that you could continue doing these creepy things you creepy french fries do, huh?"

France blinked several times, bewildered. "Pardon? I am not sure I follow..."

"I _saw_ what you were getting at! You were taking advantage of the limey!"

France smacked the younger Nation's hands away before composing himself and straightening to his full height (which was slightly more than usual because of his platform shoes).

"What izzis really about? You are still notz mad about zose precious Mac Doughs of yours getting bulldozed by my good contra-processed meat farmers, _non_? Don'tz forget, England's 'amburger chef _did_ sue you for zat too."

"Don't try to weasel your way out of the topic by pretending that you didn't fucking hear me!"

"Hearing is one zhing; believing is anuhzzer. You are insinuatzing zat England is weak enough to be taken advatage of? I say you are outz of your noggin'!"

"He is a stupid, defenceless drunk, and you know it!"

" _'Defenceless'?_ " France repeated incredulous, before his insides began to simmer with rising laughter.

America's frown deepened. He was always up for a good laugh, which is why he let the man have his round of it; but when France didn't sober up faster than his depleting patience, his hands reached out to grab the Frenchman's lapel again but he hissed as they were easily slapped away.

"First of all…" The older Nation languidly leaned back into his barstool wiping specks of moisture from the corners of his eyes. "It would do you well to not be ignorant of ze facts before you ask for trouble! England was piss drunk in 1588 ze night he overthrew ze Spanish Armada… Also in 1805 when he and zat—Nelson kid kicked Napoleon's, mine, and our entire army's arses at Trafalgar! He was always— _always_ —wasted out of his mind—zat is ze only way you couldz getz 'im out to sea! Lest he remember ze fact zat he would be so very foolishly temptzing death each time! If I were to describe what he was during those times – ' _defenceless_ ' would be ze last zing zat would come to mind...! If anyzhing, there was only one zhing he thirsted for, more zhan booze, and zhat was blood! What makes you zink zhat England is a 'damsel in distress' who needs a hero to rescue 'im? And more importantly, what devil's potion 'ave you swallowed to see it fit to take it upon yourself to be zhat hero? Wait—are you possessed by zhose fangirls of yours again?"

"The limey may have been a cold-blooded killer when he was a pirate, but he is sissier than a little girl every other time! Something he got from the likes of you cheesy Frenchies."

"Tut-tut! Now if you will start getting into stereotypes, at least get it right! Not being an aggressive warmonger like you is not tantamout to being weak; nor does a healthy dose of femininity equate to lesser manhood _._ We may 'ave effeminate waistlines but we—this 'cheesy french fry' and that 'sissy limey'—are _still,_ much ' _bigger'_ zan you; surely you 'ave not forgotten zis fact?"

America visibly reddened but he said nothing; France went on…

"You zhink 'e did not come 'ere of his own accord? I do not see why you 'ave zhese crazy ideas in your 'ead all ze time! You should not believe every'zhing you read on ze internet, _mon ami_! Too much of zat and television can do funny zhings to our brains!"

America said nothing, but his sky-blue eyes blazed.

"Come on, you are notz being jealous, _are you?_ "

"What?!"

"If ze rosbif is truly as helpless as you zhink zhen 'e will not object to whatzever you say or do to him. He will go home widz you and as you say, 'ze hero saves ze day', and you will be satisfied, _non_? He is in ze loo, you are free to prove me wrong if, you wish."

"Are you daring me to seduce the limey?" America smirked. "You know he likes me. More than he ever could you."

"Of course, he likes you!" France spat in a bored tone not completely void of contempt. "Zhatiss what his boss tells 'im to do! The same way my boss tells me to be all ' _chummy'_ widz Gzermany even if it is so utterly ludicrous! We both 'ave no choice in ze matter; and for you to not see zhat, it means itiss _you_ who is ze naïve one!" The Super Nation's fists balled in his sides, but he chose to say nothing; or perhaps it was quiet acquiescence, France didn't care to know. "The fact zhat you zhink he needs protecting from someone who he has been fighting widz and againstz even before you came into existence is proof that you do not know him! You are out of bounds. He cares about you, yes—zhat is somezhing inevitable; but zhat affection is not at all what you zhink itiss."

"Yeah, right!" America scoffed silently. "Like you would know better."

" _My boy_ , there is no uzzer Nation who knows England better zhan I do. _Not_ _India, not Holland_ , _and no—not even you_. I made him a big part of what he is now—as he did me; widzout each uzzer we wouldn't even be who we are! Maybe we wouldn't even exist. If you believe I am mistaken and are confident enough to still believe zhat he likes you beyond political reasons—confident enough to put a wager on it… Then I dare you to take advantage of him. We will see if he is as weak as you say 'e is."

"I'm not going to stoop to your level just to make a point!"

"You are afraid he will reject you now zhat we are not in a courtesy call. It is not 'is boss' orders to kiss me, and yet, _he did._ If you zhink it is easy for someone he hates to take advantage of 'im zhen it should be a slice of pie to get him to admit he adores you!"

America stared, mouth set in a straight line, eyebrows furrowing. "That's 'piece of cake', dumbass."

"What is ze matter? Afraid he will—as you say—' _kick your derriere_ '?"

"Heroes aren't fucking afraid of no one!"

"So you say now! Ohohon! But you 'ave not known what it truly means to be afraid! Not untzil you 'ave gotten into a brawl widz ze drunken King of ze Seas!" France pressed his hands together in mock elation. "I 'ave never taken you for a chicken fillet, beef burger boy!"

Both Nations faced each other, expressions steely and dead serious.

"I am not a coward."

"Then prove it! Did you come 'ere to challenge me or to simply zhrow around braggadocio? _Qui ne risqué rien n'a rien_ … _Risk nothing, gain nothing._ If you believe you are in ze right, zhen you 'ave everyzhing to gain an' nuzzing to lose. Zhis matter will be settled once an' for all! Unless, you know I am right… and zhat you are wrong."

America was ruffled. He did not need to 'believe' anything because _he knew_ he was right! But he was hoping that France would challenge him to something more up his alley – like a one-on-one fist-fight, not making sexual advances on his former caretaker—to whom his feelings still couldn't make up their own mind as to what they wanted to be. Sex and romance were just necessary means to a necessary end to him; they weren't instruments in complicated mind games or objects of sophisticated art like they were to the likes of France. It just wasn't his style.

The French Nation laughed, breaking America out of his conflicted thoughts.

"I know you zhink you are his obsession, however, I am his world. Widzout you he is still him; widzout me, he is nuzzing. England is me and I am England. You are a zhousand years too late to lay claim to 'im. He gave himself freely to me and 'e always will. Just as I did myself to 'im. I am ze only one who never left his side—for better or worse!"

"Why I oughta—!"

"—the bloody devil's name is going on here?"

The two bickering Nations jumped.

"Are you two _fighting_?"

France raised his arms in mock surrender and looked in askance at America, who for his part, looked like a child who had just been spanked.

England's brow went up inquisitively as he pointedly looked from France to America.

"Ask 'im." America nearly balked at France's gesture in his direction. "Your former ward 'as—shall we say: 'issues' widz—"

"Hahaha! We were just fooling around! I happened to see ol' frenchy here and thought I'd say 'hi', 'is all!" America blurted out giving France a suspiciously friendly wink. "Anyhoo…" He turned to England who was studying him intently. "I think I've had one too many to drink and I was about to haul my butt home, so yeah… Cheerios!"

"It's 'cheerio', you daft twit. Not 'cheerios'!"

"Yeah, well, I'm a free nation now, dude! America can say whatever America wants!"

"How childish," England muttered when the bespectacled Nation had disappeared from view. He huffed and puffed before giving France a sidelong glance. "Do you want to tell me what that was all about? It certainly looked like you were exchanging more than pleasantries."

"Oh, itiss not'zing, _cher_. Itiss- as he said. He was merely…" France paused a beat. "…'checking' on us."

The English Nation's eyes narrowed to slits.

France shrugged. "Per'aps 'e misses you an'… zatiss 'is way of showing it."

"Right. And bloody pigs fly."

 **The End.**

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 **Notes:**

This was my earliest foray into the world of Hetalia fanfiction (drafted May 2012). After undergoing many changes, it became this. Also, I have to say that I wrote this pre-Eric Vale when I absolutely abhorred the Japanese version of America. (But I'm past all that, I don't hate Murika now. :D I like him, in fact, haha!)

There is also a tiny poke in there about p-sizes, dedicated to all the Murika fans who write that he is "bigger" than England and France. Well, according to this: (h-t-t-p: / / brobilble. com) life/article/average-penis-size-study, it *still* is very much the other way around. And it's okay, everyone makes mistakes. At least, now you are better informed. No *hard* feelings. ^.^v Mehehe.

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(2012/05/11 - 2017/12/08)

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 **X-posted:** LM_Artless {AO3}


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